Chapter 36
A board, weathered and splintered, groaned as if burdened by the day as Jayf and Drogan stepped out of the dilapidated shack onto the fog-choked street. The stench of rotting fish and shattered dreams permeated this part of the shipping district. Gray buildings blending with the gray walkways blending with the gray swirling mist, a place where he and Drogan could disappear.
Mek kept to his own ways after they entered Kyrmak. They hoped his fleet-footed size would allow him access to information neither Jayf nor Drogan could ever glean. He kept in touch with mind-speak, letting them know what his search turned up. Which was nothing.
Then two nights ago a ship from Sedd docked. And to Jayf and Drogan’s chagrin, a handful of Academy men were among those that disembarked. Now they played a game of cat and mouse with the group.
They knew Jayf and Drogan well within the town, and word spread in short order that the academy men looked for signs and or survivors of a shipwreck. Unsure how many of them were weavers the allies kept to the less-traveled streets, garnering information from a tight group of informants the Echoing Note had cultivated in the port city.
Only two of the quarries sent to the elders of villages within messenger bird distance remained unanswered, with no sign of their companions. The feeling Jayf had at the base of his very being said they were still alive.
But the quest was time-sensitive, and Ymarii needed to know what happened. So as the swirling mists of predawn swallowed the fish shack. Drogan pulled his cloak hood over his head and silently headed down the litter filled alleyway, while Jayf slipped onto the Dragon Paths. Jayf opened his mind and sent his call out to the dragon, hoping he had enough power for her to sense him.
He found, soon enough, communication on the Paths far easier than in Hebryll proper. Ymarii’s presence flooded his mind, as did her grief. For she, like him, still believed they lived, but like him, could not sense them. In the end, she told him there was nothing he or Drogan could do, and released him from his promise of help.
Jayf bowed his head as her presence receded from his mind. Although he said nothing to her, Ymarii’s release would not appease his need to find his friends or avenge carnage at Windy Cove, just as he knew the air guardian would not stop until she found her egg and the perpetrators of that theft and the atrocities at Windy Cove. He sighed and, with a mental shake, brought his focus back to the task at hand.
Kyrmak and Windy Cove had long been trading partners and Jayf knew the byways he ghosted well. It wasn’t long before he found Drogan in the last of the predawn gloom on the alley side of the Port Administrator’s Office.
“I will slip in first to make sure only the administrator occupies the office,” Jayf said, staying back in the shadows.
Drogan grunted and gave a curt nod. His frustration at allowing Jayf to take the lead almost made the dragonkin chuckle as with a wink he disappeared onto the Dragon Paths.
The sun was a shimmering spot of beaten silver against a world of opalized gray as Jayf came off the Paths and silently opened the door to the office. Scones filled with oil lit up the walls of the room, chasing the early morning gloom into the corners and cubbyholes. And sitting across from Administrator Dunton, a cloaked figure.
Dunton glanced up from the papers he scanned and then sideways at the stranger. The hardness of his gaze was all the warning the dragonkin needed. Jayf paused. If he disappeared onto the Paths, he would still have to reappear to open the door. He held his breath, reversed direction, and groped for the latch.
“Sorry to disturb,” he said as the door hinge screamed his presence. He slipped out the door before the cloaked visitor could turn. Skipping aside, he hurried past Drogan, motioning him to follow as he headed into the shadows of the alley. Drogan was with him in a couple of strides and then shortened his pace to match that of the dragonkin. “What has us scampering down the alleys like frightened wharf rats?”
“An Academy man sat with our friend Dunton. I did not get a view of his face, but the Academy cloak is distinctive. I believe I got out of there without him seeing who I was. But he heard someone come in and leave.”
Drogan slowed to a halt and Jayf stopped, turning back to his friend. “I excused myself to raise less suspension. But if they get curious, I assume it would be to our advantage to be gone.”
“It would be to our advantage to capture, question and detain this weaver, I’m thinking,” Drogan said, running his hand over his stubbly chin.
“Ordinarily I would agree, but we need to stay focused on finding Marley and Glyf and the rest of them.” Jayf watched Drogan’s jaw tighten and braced himself.
“Jayf, it has been a full moon cycle since the shipwreck, with no signs of any other survivors. We need to face the very real probability that they are dead. Ymarii made it clear we can’t be of help to her as we are and what is happening on the other side of the Firasian Sea will happen with or without our help, it would seem. But we can try to make a difference here where we are. The weaver in there will be vulnerable here, alone and perhaps he will have information about Marley.”
Drogan had Jayf’s attention. He was right. At least in that, they could make a difference here. “So, what did you have in mind? I do not agree that our comrades are dead. I would… know… if they were, but I agree with the rest of your points and we need to talk to Dunton.”
Drogan tossed a black stone to the dragonkin. “Perhaps you could slip onto the Dragon Paths and when I open the door, slip in with me. Place that stone in the weaver’s pocket.”
Jayf caught it, knowing what it was before he looked at its surface. “So you have not run out of the Tavir silencers Marley gave you.”
“Indeed, though I am running low. Whisper tysta as you release it and then high-tail it out of the way.”
Jayf nodded, but after a momentary pause said, “If I could get another of those, I think it might be wise. My insides say it will not be as easy as you would make it sound.”
Drogan let out a snort, but after fishing around in his waist pouch, another small stone dropped neatly into the dragonkin’s hand. “I take it you foresee trouble?”
“Why do you think I was high-tailing it down the alleyway?”
Drogan tipped his hand to his head and said, “Point taken, and forewarned.” He turned on his heel, his voice drifting back as he strode toward the street. “Coming?”
The door shut with a click, and the hair on the back of Drogan’s neck stood on end. Being touched by someone on the Paths was like being touched by a ghost. The air smelled of stale pipe smoke and a sweet, exotic scent. He frowned. He knew that scent, but couldn’t identify it. The harper counted five before the hooded figure sitting across from the balding administrator turned.
The weaver rose as she turned and Drogan gaped, sure the surprised look on her face had to be matched by his own. “Valashur!”
“Do not call me that,” she snapped. “You may call me Mistress Kefira or weaver Mistress Kefira. But if you call me by my given name again, I will have your tongue ripped out and it would be unfortunate for you to lose your tongue.”
Drogan could almost see the thoughts streaming through her head. She stalled for something, just as he did. He wondered if she was expecting company or if the weavers had a mind-speak like the dragonkin and other gifted creatures used.
She stepped back a pace, coming up against the office desk. “It figures it would be you, with that dragon-spawn imp. Does the court…” she paused and, tilting her head in consideration, said, “Your pardon, but does the council of Kiylorone know the ilk you now run with?”
“They would not be as scandalized by my company as the King of Faltamar would be by the company his daughter kept.”
Thwack. Valashur’s hand connected with Drogan’s face before he could dodge. “Talk of that place again and see how long you stay alive,” she snarled.
His brow arched and he rubbed his hand across his reddening cheek. Glancing around for his partner, he wondered how long he would have to put up with her before Jayf made his move when the dragonkin appeared to her left.
Jayf’s position was awkward because of the desk and he faltered. His hand came down heavy, reaching for her cloak pocket. He released the stone, but before it settled or the dragonkin could trigger the rune, her hand dove into her cloak pocket.
She pulled the silencing stone out and flipped it in the air. It landed with a slight thunk and everyone stood hushed for a moment, watching it roll until it hit the wall and stopped. Jayf disappeared back onto the paths before the weaver could work her magic on him.
“I thought you were better than that,” she said, her voice filled with laughter.
Drogan couldn’t tell where Jayf loitered, but was glad he didn’t act foolishly and come off the Paths. Without thought, the harper drew his blades.
Valashur waved her hand from side to side and said. “Let’s not fight by firelight. Now burn the hands that would bleed me.”
The lantern on the desk flared, and both of Drogan’s blades glowed red. He let them clatter to the floor as the leather-wrapped hilts smoldered. “Your essence-weaving has improved little, sweet cheeks.”
“It’s all about results,” she said with a smirk. “Now where is that little imp?” The door burst open as she spoke and three more from the academy pushed in. “If the dragon-spawn does not show himself, my men will execute you. After, of course, the prerequisite torture.”
With a sly wink, she walked around the chair to stand in front of Drogan. Reaching out with a long fingernail, she traced a line along his cheekbone. “We mustn’t forget the prerequisite torture.”
Afraid that Jayf would come out of hiding, Drogan drawled. “You’re outa luck, Mistress Weaver. He high-tailed it out of here soon as the door opened. So kill me all you want, but remember. With me dead, you have little to no chance of catching him. But with me alive, well, I was his partner…”
“How do you know he left if you can’t see him either?”
“If he passes close enough, you will feel a chill as if touched by a ghost or a spirit of another world.”
Two of the three weavers gasped, looking between Drogan and the door. “I believe those two just confirmed it,” he said, nodding toward them.
Ignoring his words, Valashur scanned the room as an involuntary shiver shook her shoulders. “We shall see how long he stays hidden while you writhe on the floor.”
But in between her inhale and exhale, the word tysta echoed faintly in the suddenly quiet room. She opened her mouth to weave, but no words came out. Drogan dove forward, knocking her down. Her head hit the edge of the desk and she lay unconscious as the harper rolled away.
He regained his feet, spinning toward the three newcomers in time to see Jayf reappear dagger in hand.
In one smooth move, the dragonkin flipped the dagger; it fled his hand to find a new home in the heart of the academy man wearing a darkly glowing stone about his neck. The other two charged forward, swords drawn as Jayf disappeared. Drogan leaped over the desk, trying to put some distance between him and the men while he looked for a weapon. He came down on one knee only to find himself face to face with Administrator Dunton.
“Give me your short sword,” he whispered, holding out his hand as he straightened. The official slid his sword across the space, and Drogan grabbed it just as the two academy men rounded the desk from either side, cornering him.
He feinted to his left, scanning the room for his friend. Although Jayf was nowhere to be seen, he noted the dagger was gone. A clumsy slash from the guard on the right brought him back to the business at hand. Wishing for his own blades, he parried the slash and turned the short sword to its work, the need to finish this business an itch between his shoulders.
A moment later, Jayf stood upon the desktop, dagger in hand. The two guards hesitated almost as one, uncertainty on their faces. Drogan loathed killing if unnecessary and saw an opening. He glanced at his friend and Jayf nodded as if he knew what he was thinking.
“All the essence-weaving at your allies’ fingertips and look what it got them.” Drogan motioned toward the two bodies on the floor. “Do you think you will fare any better?”
Jayf blinked out of sight, reappearing on a chair in the corner with his blade in a throwing position. He cleared his throat. The guards glanced in his direction and looked at each other. One shrugged, slowly lowering his blade to rest, the tip touching the floor. The other shook his head, his face a mask of distaste, but after a momentary hesitation, he also lowered his weapon.
“What would you have us do?” The first guard asked as Drogan took both swords and the administrator crawled out from beneath the desk.
He handed the old man’s short sword back to him with a slight nod and turned to the guards. “Just leave. I suggest you find yourselves alternative employment. I doubt your superiors will be happy with what they find here and, more to the point, who they won’t find in your custody after losing two of their weavers.”
Drogan nodded toward the door. “Go back to the academy or your outpost on this side of the Firasian or find a new life somewhere… else, it matters not, but do it now before I change my mind.”
They were out and gone before the harper could round the desk. Jayf stood with the administrator, deep in conversation. Drogan, sure he knew what they chatterwacked about, wondered if he’d be able to pull the dragonkin away from Kyrmak if there wasn’t any word of their friends.
He squatted beside the weaver, Valashur. She still appeared to be out cold. Unsure how much her illusion disguised her wounds, he reached out to check her breathing, but she rolled away, coming up in a crouch a few spans away. A silent snarl twisted her lips and anger burned in her pale green eyes. She wobbled standing but recovered with a grace only one from the deep of the ancient exquisite forests could pull off.
Drogan chuckled. “Surely you do not intend to continue this fight, Valashur?” He drawled, watching Jayf slip onto the Paths and reappear behind the weaver.
She backed a step to come up against the point of Jayf’s dagger. A string of silent expletives flew from her mouth. Sure he didn’t want to know what she said, he stepped in close, fingering the gem that dangled from a silver chain about her neck. After studying it for a moment, he raised his eyes to meet hers.
“We both know what this does,” he said, the jewel still in his hand.
Valashur’s eyes flew wide, her wild gaze scanning the room. He could read her lips mouth ‘you wouldn’t dare,’ clinching the gem in his fist gave it a gentle tug. Valashur froze where she stood, her true self revealed with a snap of the chain.
A thin shimmer of short, down-like hair covered what Drogan could see of her skin. So fine and light on her face as to look only like face paint. He couldn’t help but want to reach out and stroke the pale golden pattern across her high cheekbone. He remembered the soft swirl of fine fur just above… he shook himself. She always had a way of doing that to him.
With a voice gruffer than he intended, he said. “Jayf, tie her hands while you are back there.”
Jayf reached in his cloak and produced a small ball of what looked like white twine. He held it up to show Drogan. “Spider’s silk,” he said with a grin. “Special spider’s silk. Neither essence-weaving, nor Tavir manipulation affect it and it is strong, soft and reliable.”
She flinched as the dragonkin grasped her wrists, but he quickly and efficiently knotted her hands together. Coming around from behind her, he asked. “Was not Valashur the name of the princess your brother planned to marry this Midtinandra’s Eve?”
“Indeed, a story I intend to hear once we are in a less conspicuous, more comfortable place.”
Drogan and Jayf turned toward the old administrator. While they sorted things out, he stayed back, straightening up the shelves. Now he nodded toward the dead weaver on the floor. “I have no love for this academy and their huff and puff, higher than you attitude,” the official said. He glanced toward the back of the office. “I will show you my emergency exit as long as you blindfold her.” He jutted his chin at Valashur and spat.
Drogan sighed and shook his head. “Seems you don’t make friends or inspire trust, Valashur.” He hitched his thumb toward the dead weaver and asked the administrator. “What would you have us do with that one?”
“Don’t worry about him. I can make him disappear almost as quickly as you made those other two guards leave with no connecting evidence to you or the Port Authority.” The old man came up slightly on the balls of his feet, bouncing a couple of times.
Drogan flashed him an acknowledging grin; confident the Administrator could take care of any business that might arise. He moved to the dead weaver, ripping the spirit stone from his neck, and glanced back at Valashur, wondering why she didn’t wear one. With a shrug, he strode back to his ally and his captive. He imagined there would be plenty of time to find the answers to the mysteries surrounding her.
Taking Valashur by the arm, Drogan pulled her over to the desk. He lay the spirit stone on the desktop. “May I use your dagger for a moment, Jayf?”
Jayf handed him the weapon hilt first. As he lifted the blade, he couldn’t help but notice it was made of mythrol, a perfectly balanced blade with some kind of symbol engraved upon the hilt. With an appreciative glance at the dragonkin, he hefted it by the blade and brought the hilt down on the spirit stone. The jewel shattered and the coalescing mist took on a somewhat human form.
“Be at rest and find your maker’s peace.” Jayf intoned as the captive spirit dissipated into the air.
Valashur stood docile, but Drogan was a bit surprised at the look of grief that flickered in her strange eyes. He brushed the pieces of stone onto the floor and quickly stomped them into dust, shoving the larger chunks through the floor cracks with the toe of his boots.
He couldn’t hold the grimace from his face as he swung around, knocking the weaver along the side of the head with the dagger haft. But he could see little choice in controlling her while they made their escape. Blindfolding her wouldn’t have been enough with the heightened senses of her kind. He caught her as she crumpled to the floor and slung her over his shoulder.
“Would you fetch my swords from the floor, Jayf? I’m afraid they require some repair,” he said, handing the dragonkin back his blade. As his friend retrieved his weapons, Drogan turned to the administrator. “I believe we are ready, sir.”